


talking in tongues

by paintingraves (kallistob)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Confessions, First Kiss, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Self-Reflection, also crepes !, crepes are important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 07:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19741246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kallistob/pseuds/paintingraves
Summary: “It has come to my attention,” Aziraphale said. “That is - I’ve done some thinking, Crowley, and I've realized that you love me." He paused, and softened. "Just as I love you."





	talking in tongues

**Author's Note:**

> soft!!!!!!!  
> i just wanted to write crowley replying "bwuh" rather eloquently to a declaration of love because somehow i find the image very funny. im a simple person.  
> original title for that fic was "they're idiots"

Aziraphale enjoys good food. No, enjoy is not the right word. He _adores_ good food. He delights in eating, and as such, he has the knack for finding good restaurants all over London. Once, drunk on a bottle of Merlot, he said to Crowley that tasting that veal fillet order at the Ritz had felt like making love. His friend had blushed, spluttered, and changed the subject to music, which is how they later found themselves singing at the top of their lungs a be-bop song called _Yellow Brick Road_. 

The point is : Aziraphale loves eating. He’s a glutton. He has managed to come to terms with that appellation over time: it is no sin to enjoy food. And it is no sin, as a customer, to help restaurant owners make an honest living. The other angels wouldn't understand his choices, but they didn’t matter. Not anymore. Not since the failed Apocalypse, and the little stunt he pulled with Crowley to avoid execution by their respective sides. It seemed they had scared their superiors enough to be left alone - for now. 

Aziraphale swallowed another bite of his crêpes Suzette, and closed his eyes in pleasure as the dessert melted on his tongue. God, that was so good. He wondered what Crowley would think of it. 

As often was the case when Aziraphale was alone, he found his thoughts inevitably drifting towards the demon. This was their first week of liberty since their trials. Finally, they were free to meet up as they liked, without fearing retribution from Heaven and Hell. An angel and a demon being friends - it had been an aberration since the beginning of times, but it was their reality. And as much as he pushed Crowley away, Aziraphale really would never have survived without him all this time. He’d have been terribly lonely. It did feel odd, not to have to hide their alliance anymore. It was new and fragile. 

Old instincts sometimes kicked back : Crowley would suggest in hushed whispers that they meet at one of their alternative rendez-vous points, after nightfall. And even after they both remembered that no, they could simply meet in broad daylight wherever and whenever they wanted - Crowley still acted jittery. He kept looking over his shoulder. Once or twice he had caught Aziraphale brusquely by the arm, as though ready to miracle them away somewhere safe in a heartbeat. But as time passed and nothing happened, he had relaxed. 

For Aziraphale, the lack of crushing guilt really was a relief. He had always felt like he was betraying The Almighty by fraternizing with a demon, a fallen angel that She had cast out. Now that weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Until Heaven decided to contact him again, he had no one to answer to; there was no need to justify himself. He could just meet Crowley because he enjoyed spending time with him. The demon was his friend. They didn’t have to find a pretense to see each other anymore - the Arrangement was forgotten. They met and talked and laughed as old friends do. It was blissful. 

Wistfully, Aziraphale thought back on their encounters these last few centuries. One particular event came to him, brough at the forefront of his mind by the fact that they had just narrowly avoided a full blown out war. 

He shivered in dread as he recalled the events. They had tried to prevent the Apocalypse, and had _utterly_ failed at their jobs. They had been terrible at this, really terrible. Two clowns would have probably been more efficient. The world had been saved by four _children,_ and two humans, while they watched from the sidelines (and later took the blame). It was lucky that Adam cared more about his friends than he cared about being a Dark Lord; lucky that Newt was such a failure with computers that he managed to stop the bloody nuclear war in time. It was lucky. 

Maybe, as Crowley had said afterwards, that was part of God’s plan. Maybe She had intended for it to be like this all along. Maybe She never intended for the Apocalypse to happen. Maybe She had counted on an old friendship between a demon and an angel, on a witch’s descendant, on a failed computer nerd and a golden-haired Antichrist, who would reject Satan as his father. 

Aziraphale still couldn’t help but dwell on what could have happened. How would they have survived another war? He doesn’t think they would have. No one would have. They would have been destroyed, just like everything on Earth. Every man, woman and children would have been killed. Nature would have burned alive, with all the animals living in it. A barren wasteland, as far as the eye could see. A rotten no man's land bearing the stench of death and destruction. Aziraphale hadn’t been to Hell, but he imagined this would have been worse. 

In his mouth, the crêpe turned sour. He forced himself to chew and swallow it. He dabbed at his lips with a napkin. His side would have won. All the demons would have been hunted down and destroyed - including Crowley. Maybe they would have forced Aziraphale to smite him, to test his loyalties. There would be nowhere to hide, not this time. Or maybe Crowley would have been killed at someone else’s hand, like Michael’s. The Archangels were known to be ruthless in times of war. Their utter lack of character and blank obedience terrified Aziraphale. They had Faith, were devoted to God, and kept following orders She had given them millenia ago without question. They had no idea how much the world had changed, and didn't care to know. 

Crowley believed that since this war had failed, the next one would be opposing Heaven and Hell to humanity. The both of them would fight with humanity, if it came to that. They were on their own sides. But if this were to happen, since Above and Below were so out of tune with the times, Aziraphale felt that - despite their divine powers - humanity may very well win that one. What would be a world without Heaven or Hell? Worse, how would humans, if they won and survived and rebuilt, cope with the knowledge that what they believed in was _actually_ real? Angels and demons were legends. They weren’t meant to ever exist, much less interact with humanity. 

But - that was all speculation. It was no use torturing himself with those thoughts. Replete, Aziraphale patted his belly and gestured for the waiter to bring him the bill. He really should bring Crowley here - that lunch had been scrumptious. He remembered the demon had slept through World War One. Aziraphale told him all about it one evening, drunker than he could even remember being in his life. He’d actually thrown up and blacked out, a remarkable feat when you’re an angel, and need to drink twice as much as the average human to even feel tipsy. 

Aziraphale had worked as a priest during that time. He had been at the forefront of battle. His divinity protected him from the bullets and shrapnel as soldiers died by dozens around him. They all forgot the cause for which they were fighting. All they wanted was to go home. 

Aziraphale took their pain upon himself, as much as he was able to. He walked in the trenches, day and night; he blessed soldiers, organized mass; he listened to them, and tried to make their miserable living conditions just a bit better. He saved hundreds of lives. He never slept, never ate, and was very nearly discorporated multiple times because he was exhausted, down to his very essence. But there was still so much work to do. It never stopped. Aziraphale lost track of time. They all did. All that mattered was his work. One night he asked - begged Heaven to send more forces to help him deal with this, and received no answer. 

He saw Death, every day. Even though They had no face, even They seemed sorry when They looked at Aziraphale and saw him standing there, his robes heavy with the blood of others, his face gaunt and his eyes haunted. Crowley had slept through that. For a long time, Aziraphale had been mad at him, for not being there when he was needed. But Crowley couldn’t have known. 

There were a few years of peace after that. Aziraphale returned to his bookshop, and prayed that this was the last global scale war humanity would know.

In 1939, September 3rd, Prime Minister Chamberlain told the British population that they were at war against Germany. 

Amidst the chaos following the announcement, Aziraphale drunk himself into a stupor, and thought about what he would do this time to help. 

He decided to work from the inside. He contacted British Intelligence, and slowly gained their trust. He did the same on the opposite side with the Nazis. One of the benefits of being an angel was that he didn’t need to sleep, therefore he had twice as much time as any human to set his plans into motion. They were simple; he wanted to help arrest as many Nazis as he could, and in doing so bring the war to a quicker end. During that time, he briefly met Alan Turing. He gave him faith in Enigma, although the man was not particularly religious. 

He was too busy to think of Crowley. 

As time passed, he felt like he was making headway. Two of Hitler’s men contacted him to enquire after prophetic books. On the other side, a young woman claiming to be part of the British Intelligence proposed to help him arrest them when the time was right. Aziraphale had heartily agreed. The meeting was to be held at night in a church. The British forces would surround it, effectively trapping the two Nazis inside. It was a good plan. The angel just hadn’t counted on being betrayed himself, by the young lady. She turned out to be working with them. Aziraphale found himself on the wrong end of a gun, and this is the moment Crowley - after nearly a century of radio silence - made his grand entrance. 

Aziraphale smiles at the memory as he miracles a couple folded notes to place on top of the bill the waiter just gave him. 

Crowley’s arrival had been unexpected, yes; quite spectacular, and very confounding for everyone involved. He hopped on his feet like a man possessed because he stood on consecrated ground, and hissed at Aziraphale that he’d come to save him. Then he blew up the church and the Nazis in it. 

He had saved him, Aziraphale muses. There was no way he could have talked his way out of that one, and he really hadn’t wished to be discorporated. He was thrilled to see Crowley, although the timing was wrong: he had so much to tell him! He hadn’t seen him in so long. 

Then Aziraphale remembered the prophetic books he’d brought, the whole reason why he was meeting up with Nazis in the first place. He started mourning their loss. There was no ways these priceless items had survived when the whole church lay in pieces around them. 

But Crowley had sniffed, smirked at him, and handed him the saddlebag, with all the books in it. There wasn't a scratch on it. 

“Lift home?” asked the demon, walking away through the wreckage. Aziraphale stared after him, his mouth half open, his eyes wide. His brain sounded like an old scratched record, constantly replaying the phrase Crowley had said on a loop: _“Little demonic miracle of my own - little demonic miracle of my own - little demonic miracle of my own...”_

Aziraphale’s soul was old. Yet, in that moment, as he looked at Crowley, he felt like a wild, bright young thing. He was a dove about to take flight for the first time; a fawn scampering way; he was northern lights blooming in the sky. 

The angel had no idea he had stopped in the middle of the street to stare beatifically at nothing until someone bumped him in the shoulder. “You’re blocking the way!” A woman said, holding onto a pushchair. Aziraphale apologized and stepped aside. He did not even remember leaving the restaurant, so caught up as he had been in his own mind. He replayed that moment, Crowley giving him the books.The demon had _saved_ him. And he saved the books, because he knew Aziraphale would be greatly upset if he lost them. He knew how much Aziraphale cared about them, even though they hadn’t seen each other in a very long time. Crowley hadn’t forgotten him. 

There was more, Aziraphale realized. Despite his fear, Crowley had kept meeting Aziraphale through the centuries. He knew that if his alliance with the angel was to be discovered by Hell, he faced at best torture, at worse destruction. Yet _he_ was always the one to instigate their encounters, and Aziraphale always felt delighted to hear from him. Crowley had asked him for holy water back in the nineteenth century, because - because he wanted to keep meeting Aziraphale, and he wanted something to defend himself against Hell if they came for him. 

Aziraphale had wrongly thought the demon was asking him for what amounted to a suicide pill, and had been greatly upset. But it was just insurance. Something to give him time, enough time to run away with Aziraphale if it came to that. _Alpha Centauri, no one will ever notice us_. He was risking so much for the angel - what did Aziraphale gave him in turn? 

_We’re not friends. I’ve never met him._

_Go off together? Do you hear yourself?_

_We’re an angel and a demon. We’re on opposite sides!_

_You’re not my friend. I don’t even like you!_

Aziraphale stood stock still, his mind reeling as he realized how utterly cold he'd been. “Good lord...” he breathed out, ashamed. “I’ve been an absolute _idiot.”_

How many times had he broken Crowley’s heart over the centuries...? Because that’s what he’d done! Without even noticing! 

_I lost my best friend,_ Crowley said, his voice breaking. 

_Oh. I’m sorry to hear that._

He was a fool, a bumbling _fool._

How had he not seen this? The depth of Crowley’s devotion? How was it hitting him just now? It was all so obvious! It had been for centuries, if Aziraphale bothered to look. But he’d been blind to it - forced himself to be blind to it because - because he was scared. And they were back to the start again. He had been terrified of a higher power, but now… Now, like Crowley had said, they were on their own side. They were free. 

Crowley _loved_ him. 

He was sure of it. It was a fact - as true as the knowledge that the Earth goes around the sun, and that the sky is blue. Yes, Crowley was a demon. But this demon had saved Aziraphale countless times throughout centuries. By all accounts they should have been at each other’s throats anytime they met, but instead they had talked, and agreed upon the Arrangement (Crowley's idea). The demon had always been more sensible. He was good, or rather he was bad at being bad (it was a great insult to say a demon was good, even if it was the truth). 

When they first met, and Aziraphale had been worrying himself sick about that blasted flaming sword, Crowley had reassured him. He had been kind, though it wasn’t in his interest to do so. He shouldn’t have cared whether Aziraphale felt bad or not about giving his weapon away to Adam and Eve. If anything, he ought to have encouraged his guilt and doubts, let them fester until Aziraphale was persuaded he did the wrong thing, and only deserved to Fall for disobeying Her direct orders. But he hadn’t.

Crowley had saved kids from being drowned, transporting them to another continent during the episode of Noah’s ark. Crowley had held him close when Aziraphale felt down, had stroked his hair as Aziraphale cried, mourning the loss of the Great Library of Alexandria. Crowley had given him chocolates when the angel first opened his bookshop, because he was truly happy for him. 

Crowley loved him. God, he was an idiot. And so was the demon! He no doubt thought something stupid, like that Aziraphale would accuse him of not being able to love because of his nature. Or, Aziraphale realized with a twinge of guilt, since he’d never reciprocated, Crowley had buried his feelings and accepted the fact that they would never be more than friends. 

If it were any other angel they were talking about, there would have been disgust, even mockery, in reaction to such a confession. But Aziraphale was not any other angel. He was Crowley’s best friend, had known Crowley for a very, very long time. They had prevented the Apocalypse together and had survived Heaven and Hell’s wrath. They were everything to each other. Crowley couldn’t live without Aziraphale: that was a fact, too. He always came back to the angel, like Aziraphale was his center of gravity. 

He started to walk again, with determination this time. He had to let Crowley know that he knew, and that the feeling was mutual. He loved Crowley. Not as an angel ought to love all things. The love The Almighty transmitted to them was maternal, a close, unbreakable bond that Aziraphale always cherished. But the love he felt for Crowley… Now that the dam had broken, he wanted to let it consume him. He needed to see Crowley, here, _now._ He needed to hold him. He wanted to kiss him, and let him know how much he was loved, how much he was adored. He imagined Crowley would be completely overwhelmed; that his cheeks would take the color of a ripe red apple, and that he would look just as appetizing. Aziraphale licked his lips. 

How could he have been so blind? How long had Crowley kept this to himself? If his feelings were half as intense as Aziraphale’s, how had he not drowned, pulled under the weight of them? How had he survived? The angel was agitated. He came up in front of the bookshop and pushed open the door, leaving the sign on it to ‘Close’. He pulled down the shades. He considered leaving again and taking a taxi to Crowley’s flat, but he didn’t know if Crowley would be home. He settled on giving him a call first to check. 

It rang three times before Crowley answered. Aziraphale’s insides did a somersault at the sound of Crowley’s raspy voice. He sounded like he had just woken up from a nap, which was probably the case. “Yessss?” 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale swallowed, twirling his finger in the telephone cord. “Hello, my dear. Are you free at the moment?” 

“Yeah, angel. Do you want me to come over?” 

“Yes - yes, please,” Aziraphale said, flushed. “There’s something I must tell you.” He hung up before he could say more. He was sweating. How was he sweating? He’d read too many romance novels, that was it -- now his body reacted in the same way as all those blushing maidens discovering love for the first time. He tugged at his collar, feeling too hot. “Ohdear,” he said. “Oh dear oh dear oh dear. Oh, god. Right.” 

Crowley would be here shortly. All he had to do was wait. He wrung his hands, and decided he probably should make a cup of tea for them both. That was polite. Aziraphale was nothing if not polite. 

He made his way to the backshop to do so, then thought a bottle of wine was probably better - even if it was only the beginning of the afternoon. Time meant nothing to them, did it? They were immortal. Where was the wine? Suddenly he felt anxious about his appearance. He patted down his hair, hoping it didn’t look too wild. The curls felt fluffy to the touch, soft as feathers. He knew Crowley had never remarked on them before, but suddenly it felt important. Should he wear a tie? Should he change his clothes? He knew he looked a bit… out of date. Would Crowley like it better if he wore a dark suit, like the muscled men he saw sometimes in those billboard ads plastered all over London? Oh, the wine! He had forgotten the wine. What if Crowley wanted to eat? 

Dear lord, he was wholly unprepared for this. “Hello, Crowley,” he said to himself. “Crowley, hello. It had come to my attention that - you might have - feelings, for me. And not the kind that a demon should have for an angel - oh god, no, this is all wrong. I’ll break his heart again.” 

The doorbell rang. Aziraphale jumped, his heart skipping several beats. He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, hoping he didn’t look as flustered as he felt. He didn't want Crowley to think him drunk. 

“Angel,” Crowley called. “Are you okay?” 

Aziraphale saw him then, and… Every word he intended to say died on his tongue. 

In three quick strides he was up to Crowley’s level. He grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulled him down, and kissed him. 

Crowley _flailed._ His hands scrambled behind him for support as his legs wobbled. "Nnh," he said against Aziraphale's mouth. The angel wove his fingers in Crowley’s hair, finding purchase. Aziraphale advanced, and Crowley stepped back, nearly tripping over his own feet until his back hit the door. He arched in Aziraphale's arms. He gripped fistfuls of Aziraphale's coat, and finally, finally kissed him back. 

Aziraphale hummed and pressed himself closer to Crowley. Now that he had started, he couldn’t get enough of the demon. "I love your smell," he said between two kisses. He licked and sucked and bit Crowley’s lower lip gently, roaming his hands over the man's chest. "I love that you're taller than me. It makes me feel powerless. Vulnerable to you, demon." 

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” Crowley said feverishly. He was hot to the touch, trembling beneath Aziraphale's hands. “You said you - oh - had something to tell me?” 

He did, didn't he? Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s jaw, then his cheeks, then his forehead; Crowley let out a rather high pitched giggle when the angel kissed him on the tip of his nose, and Aziraphale grinned. He felt weightless, his heart swollen with love. Crowley’s neck was his next target. 

_“Ah -_ Aziraphale,” Crowley sighed. He bared his neck for the angel, but Aziraphale decided to pull back to take him in. His hands were on Crowley’s hips, beneath his shirt. He gently stroked the soft skin, and Crowley shivered. His hair was all over the place. 

There was a low heat pulsing through Aziraphale. “Yes, dear?” 

Unable to help it, Crowley kissed him again, his hands cupping Aziraphale's face. _“My angel.”_

He sounded just as lost, just as untethered as Aziraphale had imagined him. 

The angel took pity on him after a few more kisses. He stepped away to give Crowley room to breathe, and readjusted his collar. Crowley stayed where he’d put him, his back against the door, his chest heaving, his lips bruised pink from the kisses. His sunglasses lay on the floor by his feet - Aziraphale supposed one of them must have knocked them off in a haste. 

“It has come to my attention,” Aziraphale started inexorably. “That is - I’ve done some thinking, Crowley, and I’ve realized that you love me.” He paused, and softened. “Just as I love you.” 

“...Bwuh,” Crowley said. 

“I actually intended to say that before doing anything to you,” he confessed, “but I got a bit carried away. Forgive me.” 

“Forgive you?” Crowley said, his voice breaking. His eyes looked wet. 

“I _love_ you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and there was the weight of centuries of shared history behind it. “My demon. Will you have me?” 

Crowley made another strangled sound - and promptly turned into a snake. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said in bewilderment. 

Crowley was hiding beneath the heap of clothes he wore as a man. _You can’t jusssst sssssay thingsssss like that !_ He hissed from under there. _It’ssss too much, angel. I’m - it’ssss too much._

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, amused. “But you do believe me?” 

If Crowley didn’t, the passionate kiss they just shared would have taken care of his doubts. _Yessss,_ Crowley said after a minute of hesitation. 

“Good,” Aziraphale beamed. “Now come out of here, my dear, and change back. I’d rather like to make love to you.” 

He said those words to the man who had loved him since the world was six days old in the same bubbly, pleasant tone one would use to offer you some more jam sandwiches. The heap of clothes promptly caught fire. 

Crowley turned back into a man. He was naked, and Aziraphale opened his arms to him. The demon shook in his embrace. “I _love_ you,” he said in Aziraphale’s ear. “Please, please, please, kiss me again. I never want to wake up.” 

Aziraphale obeyed with a smile. "You're not dreaming," he murmured back. He was unabashedly happy. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading !


End file.
